blinded by the sun
by chraezanty1317
Summary: They say one's childhood defines a person. What kind of person would Bellatrix Black become, growing up in an orphanage with one Tom Marvolo Riddle? They do not share a special bond. They both live in a world where the light hurts their eyes. Even before Dumbledore's visit, they comprehend more than they could, perhaps, imagine themselves. AU, Drabble-ish collection.
1. Chapter 1 - Music to her ears

Bellatrix decides that the sounds have something dissonant about them. Piercing, clear, soaring and undeniably authentic, yes, but also distorted.

Ever so slightly curious, she gets up from the white dune, damp sand clinging to her dress. She takes off into the direction of the noise, away from the rest of the group and Mrs. Cole (who seems relaxed enough, though that could be ascribed to the shots of gin from before breakfast).

The cave has a unique smell. It reminds her of the way the streets smell after the rainfall. Still, the air in the cave is staggeringly different, so that she entertains the notion that she can taste the acrid tang of mouldiness on the tip of her tongue, lingering there long after her footsteps have taken her away from the beach. The laughter of the orphans rings in her ears as she turns the lone idea of decay over and over in her mind like a rag doll - to be discarded when grown tired of it, but happily picked up again once the old fascination resurfaces.

The waves, crashing relentlessly against the shore, are drowned out by the enthralling reverberation that lays a trail which leads further and further into the dark.

She freezes all of a sudden as her bare feet come into contact with

(_it's murky and does not look in the least like)_

water, when at the same time she spots two figures.

One of them is a mere shadow, a silhouette hidden by a jagged rock.

At the sight of the crying, writhing girl, for the first time, she grasps at the concept of what

_(under other circumstances would have been instead of)_

is a macabre variety of art.

She can pinpoint the exact factor that bothers her about the child's screams. She is insane.

Bellatrix finds her eyes drawn to the obscured outline that has chosen to step out of the shadows, for the time being. It is nothing but a human boy.

Even as the feeling in her body continually subsides, her pale lips part to reveal uneven teeth.


	2. Chapter 2 - Let it Snow

Fir wood crackles in the fireplace as Mrs. Cole huddles herself and a small group of children in a corner, safely nestled in a woolly blanket. Her breath smells of milk and gingerbread and she reads _A Christmas Carol _aloud to anyone who cares to listen.

It's snowing this year, at nightfall. Carolers roam the streets, content to sing _Silent__ Night_ for as long as their hoarse voices allow them to.

The scowl on her face has only deepened since she has received

(_nice, fluffy pink velvet for a pretty little girl like you, Bellatrix)_

a new dress to replace

(_can't let you run around in these dirty rags and tatters, this is your home now)_

her old gown.

Her pride remains due to a simple fact: she knows where she comes from. She has known her parents and relatives. Her self-imposed isolation has a fairly good reason, as does her condescension.

They don't understand, no, not they. Why should it be different? Them who like to think their attempts of making a joke out of _a white Christmas for a Black _are amusing.

She is not desperate for company or introductions. According to the old woman, they're short of

(_you'll meet Tom tomorrow, no doubt, dear)_

one member of their grim little family as it is. The windowsill is comfortable enough for now. She rests her head on her arms, pressing her face against the icy pane to see that the flakes fallen to the ground turn brown and black with mud, tainted.

A ginger-haired girl has walked up to her once, offering her a cinnamon bun and a cup of hot chocolate. Bellatrix will never know that she died two decades later, alone in her house with no one to miss her.


	3. Chapter 3 - Tales of Fairies

They might not think so, but she _knows_ all the fairy tales as well as the other girls. She knows of the names they give their dolls

(_although it's pathetic to name one after yourself, but that's just her humble opinion)_

and what their dreams for the future are. Of course she does. What else is there to do at night other than to listen to their chatter?

They never do cease with their talk. Always about the same thing. Never changing.

The day Mrs. Cole walks up to her and asks what her doll is called and what she wants to do, Bellatrix doesn't have an answer. The only thing she can say

(_I don't have a doll)_

is "I hate Snow White."

The girls have talked about princesses the week before. They had played a game, matching each member of their orphan family to one of the heroines

(_But what do they actually do? They are only there to be rescued and married to a stranger)_

and when all the usual favorites had been taken, it was up for someone to say, "She's Snow White."

The description hardly fits her, at least her mirror would never dream of speaking the words of its fictional sibling, but it would never occur to Bellatrix to protest. So what if they sometimes call her Snow White, knowing full well she will not answer?

She supposes this gave her a place in the community.

She never does sit with the others to hear the bedtime stories they are read.


	4. Chapter 4 - Child's Play

She finds him in her room.

He's going through her personal belongings, frantically searching her tiny drawer for something of value.

"That's my stuff." Her voice is hardly above a whisper, and yet he seems to hear her perfectly well, all the way from the door across the hall. She is calm and collected - what would anyone steal from her? Laughable.

"I know." He gets up and it is only now that she becomes aware of how tall he is. What strikes her is the way his eyes resemble ice in spite of their dark color. That, and how he does not even act like he's guilty or embarrassed at being caught red-handed. She doesn't think she's ever seen him before, save spoken to. Nevertheless, she has a vague idea of who he might be.

"Do you know where Maria's doll is?"

She points. "Yeah. You weren't even close."

She crouches down next to him, slightly scraping her knees in the process of stooping to the wooden floor that is so dirty it appears to be black at night,

_(a huge abyss that will swallow anyone stepping foot into where one does not belong_)

but then again, who's paying attention when you're having fun?

He remains silent as she rummages through the other girl's trunk and finally finds the inanimate object of desire.

"What do you want with it?" Instead of looking at him, she prefers to trace the doll's picture-perfect porcelain features with her fingers. As she bites at her nails until they're gone, she smears the bloomy cheeks with blood.

Bellatrix senses the boy shrug rather than see it out of the corner of her eye. "It'll make her unhappy. The doll being gone."

She nodds carefully. "So, why do it?" Her voice cracks and she doesn't know if perhaps that is as she would do exactly the same thing, given time.

"Because I can."


	5. Chapter 5 - Black Tea

One time, they go to London.

It being a metropolis, Bellatrix had expected all of it - the deafening roar of the crowds, the density, the filth of the gutters, the asphyxiating fumes of the factories.

Despite the fact that she really should know better by now, it is revealed that it is still possible to be surprised by her guardian. Mrs. Cole has been talking about this trip for ages, eagerly researching facts about the various sights to pique the children's interests. She decides to let this one slip, just to do her a favor. How amusing, even if only for a fleeting moment, her naivety

_(How can she think that no one will get away from the group to explore the city, all on their own?)_

proves to be!

So she wanders, without any set destination at first. She hastily passes King's Cross Station, thinking she might actually choke if she doesn't get away from the people around her, wishing she could simply melt into the cool brick wall scraping her side as she runs alongside it. While she slowly loses track of time, her footsteps echo through the back alley

_(she is absolutely certain she just saw a rat gnaw on a dog cadaver - a Lab?)_

and her grand strides regain direction. She knows what she wants and it's nothing to with the Tower, that's for sure.

Unconcerned, she filches a sleeping waif's mitts as she passes his bench. The stench of his breath hits her like a tidal wave.

Sluggishly, she stirs her tea and watches as the fine smoke escapes the cup only to dissolve into the air.

She raises it to her cracked lips, warming her hands in the process. While they have stopped shaking, the hot liquid leaves an unpleasant aftertaste lingering on her tongue. Rather sour. Experimentally, she adds a splash of milk and a tea spoon of sugar to find that this only makes it worse.

She chooses to ignore the inkling in the very back of her mind, that unspoken intuition that tells her she is being watched - ergo, she does not see Tom Riddle carefully observing her from a safe distance. Nineteen metres, give or take.


End file.
